Moscow Blue. Philip Kurland
it happens, governments will be interested. You’ll see,’ said Slava, retrieving Crocker’s hat and coat. It was impossible not to notice how much happier the host was looking.
‘Now let me ask you something,’ Crocker said, doing up his coat. ‘Does the name Boris Kolyunov mean anything to you?’
Slava’s expression was blank. Crocker could detect no signs of recognition. The Russian repeated the name to himself.
‘No, I do not know the name. Should I?’
Crocker was disappointed. ‘No, not really. I thought you might have heard of him. Worked for the government and was murdered a few weeks ago. Maybe by the mafia. Anyhow, perhaps you could keep an ear open, and if you do hear anything, please let me know.’
‘But of course,’ said Slava. ‘It is sad that murder here in Moscow is very common these days, Mr Lee.Is this man connected with your brother’s death, Mr Lee?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Crocker, but the question sowed a small seed in his mind.
Crocker shook hands. He hadn’t yet considered the possibility of the two deaths being connected. But it was food for thought.
‘Leave this other matter with me, Slava,’ he said, slipping back easily into negotiating mode. ‘I need to discuss it, and I’ll get back to you in a week or so.’
He sensed more than courtesy in the Russian’s final handshake.
As they drove towards the centre of Moscow, Oleg asked over his shoulder, ‘Did you have a good discussion with Slava, Mr Lee?’ Casually as he was able, he added, ‘He said it was very important. It was good for you?’
Wedged in the corner of the back seat, Crocker thought for a moment about his reply. ‘We’ll have to wait and see, Oleg.’
‘I hope you didn’t mind him calling?’
‘No, not at all. But for now just get me back to the hotel. I’m very tired.’
7
Moscow, 7 January
The local police station seemed the right place to start for someone looking for background information on two murders, and with a little description from the hotel receptionist, the tall, grey building was easy enough for Crocker to find. However, despite his tried and tested chat-up lines, all he learned from the fierce lady duty officer was that Boris Pavlovich Kolyunov had been head of the Foreign Exchange Administration, and his death in his office was regarded as suspicious. As for the death of Paul Crocker, his murder was still unsolved and in the hands of the homicide division of the Moscow Police.
‘There is no other information which is relevant,’ she had told him sternly.
It was obvious from her facial expression and brown sow-like eyes, he wasn’t going to find out anything more useful, at least not from her. He sensed that any minute she would ask him what his interest in the case was, something he wished to avoid answering at the time.
Frustrated, but not wanting to complicate matters further, he had left and made straight for Kolyunov’s office. It wasn’t difficult getting through the lax security at the building of the Ministry for Economic Relations of the Republic of Russia. With an air of authority, eyes set straight ahead, Crocker marched straight past the two guards deep in conversation and cigarette smoke. The young woman seated in the hallway outside Kolyunov’s room acted shy at first but then began speaking quickly.
‘My English is no good, but I can only said to you what policeman say me.’
Crocker smiled to encourage her. ‘And what did he say, this policeman?’
‘He say Mr Kolyunov’s secretary Victor Besedov, told him he was taken away with gun at his head. So Mr Kolyunov was alone, and they poisoned him in his chair. Poor man. That is all I know.’
Crocker gave her a big smile and told her that her English was very good.
‘Which is his room?’ he asked, taking a few steps towards an open door nearby. ‘This one here? Can I go in for a quick look?’
‘But of course.’
The room itself appeared to have been unoccupied since the murder. The name was still on the door and the strong smell of Yava cigarettes still hung in the air. The few pieces of furniture had been pushed back against the walls and it spooked Crocker somewhat to know that a man was murdered only a matter of weeks ago in this very room, probably in that very chair he was staring at. He tried to imagine the Russian sitting in the leather chair, tucked behind the tidy desk.
All drawers and cupboards in the room were unlocked, but there was nothing to learn from what he found rummaging around in them. The pencils, rubber bands, sheets of blank paper and old photographs of children at play were of no help to him. He sat on the desk, listening to the silence, and trying to envisage what had transpired there. Having had Slava casually put his brother’s name into the frame, he considered momentarily whether Paul could have been here, in this very office, to do some deal. But then it was his own name in Kolyunov’s little book.
He jumped down and went back into the hallway.
‘What was Kolyunov like?’ Crocker asked the receptionist, trying to look and sound friendly. She told him in laboured English that she was new and had neither met nor worked for Kolyunov, but she had heard he was a nice man. She was able to explain that he was found in his room, his assistant missing from the desk she now occupied.
‘Was the assistant hurt?’
Smoothing down her hair she replied, ‘I not know, but I have this from police.’ She proffered a white visiting card. ‘Please. Take it.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I’m sorry I don’t know your name.’
‘Svetlana Korsagova,’ she answered, casually tidying her desk.
‘Thank you, Svetlana.’ Crocker began to read aloud: ‘Inspector Burov,
Moscow Police, Homicide Division.’
‘By the way, I was told he the one who examine the body.’
‘I’ll return it soon,’ said Crocker, putting the card into his pocket.
‘Not necessary,’ she informed him, shaking her head slowly.
Crocker smiled at the secretary then used the phone on Kolyunov’s desk to make some calls. It seemed appropriate. With information he obtained from his office on local contacts, Crocker learned that Inspector Vladimir Burov had a reputation for being hardworking, incorruptible and conscientious, all rare attributes for a Muscovite, especially a Muscovite policeman. For Burov, dollars, surprisingly, were not required, and would be regarded as a bribe if offered, a criminal offence not often prosecuted in Russia.
Crocker called Burov’s office and found it heavy going trying to get through to the man because of his lack of Russian and the unsympathetic staff who spoke to him. The verbal battle ended when an angry voice told him that the inspector was out.
‘But he’ll be back tomorrow?’ asked Crocker.
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to make an appointment now, please.’
‘When for?’
‘Three-thirty tomorrow will be fine.’
‘What is it concerning?’
‘It’s concerning Boris Kolyunov. Thank you.’
8
Moscow, 8 January
The rearranged meeting with Mitsui was as inconclusive as Crocker had anticipated, with lots of bowing and other polite gestures, but no signatures on contracts. On reflection he decided it could have been his own fault, repeatedly slipping for short spells into a disembodied